Five Times Holmes Visited Watson at 3am
by Jennistar1
Summary: Five Times Holmes Visited Watson at 3am, and One Time Watson visited Holmes...I don't think Holmes is doing very well with Watson's absence...LAST CHAPTER NOW UP!
1. Chapter 1

**NB: Another fic, I hope I am getting better at writing the voice of both Holmes and Watson, they are an interesting challenge! I own no one, otherwise R D Jr. would be already chained up in my basement…Please Read and Review!**

**Five Times Holmes Visited Watson at 3am, and One Time Watson visited Holmes**

He was running through a rain-splattered Baker Street, although it smelled and felt wrong - the paving stones were uneven - and he was looking for something, except he couldn't remember what it was, or why he was here, and the cold was closing in -

And then suddenly he wasn't in Baker Street anymore, but on that jetty on the Thames, where he had just saved Irene Adler from an unfortunate incident with a saw - and he was running down the jetty, and Watson was standing at the other end, he could see him clearly, looking down at his feet, then noticing Holmes, and thrusting a hand forward and shouting _Holmes_ and then an explosion, white and red and blinding him, and he fell backwards, and all he could remember was thinking _no_ -

Holmes jerked awake, so violently, that he fell out of the chair he had already been rather precariously perched upon, and crashed to the floor of his room in 221b Baker Street.

He waited, nose to the floorboards, until the echoes of his rather painful contact with the floor had faded away. From the silence outside, he judged it was still night, probably early morning. Any moment now, he thought cheerfully, he would hear Watson's door open, and his unsteady walk to Holmes' door - and then he would stumble in and say something like _do you have any idea what the blasted time is?_ and everything would be fine again.

There was nothing but a further silence.

Despite his best attempts to forget, Holmes recalled his dream.

_Holmes_. And the explosion, and the look on Watson's face before it faded into white oblivion, and Holmes thinking _no -_

He scrambled to his feet. Why was Watson taking so _long?_

"Hmm," he said to the empty room, to fill it, then marched out of the room, along the hall and knocked on Watson's door.

The door swung open. Watson's room was empty - of everything.

Of course, said the logical part of Holmes' mind. He got married, he doesn't live here any longer. And then something else, something darker, something that was still attached to his dream whispered: _or did he?_ Maybe that had been part of the dream - maybe Watson really _had _been killed by the blast, because of Holmes and his stupid, idiotic adventures, and Holmes had just been imagining a happier ending for him…Maybe the room was empty because he was -

_Holmes._ Ironic, that he would say his name, the name of the one who had got him into the situation, the name of the one who had killed him -

No, he thought firmly. He wasn't dead. Ridiculous, old boy. He is fine.

But -

_Holmes._

"Hmm," he said to the room. There was only one way to find out for sure.

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_Bang. Bang bang. Bangbangbang._

John Watson was dragged out of his rather muddled dreams with an unceremoniousness that he usually only attributed to Holmes, and was surprised to find himself in the bedroom of Cavendish Place, curled up with his wife Mary, who was also stirring.

"What the - ?" he mumbled.

_Bang!_

Someone at the door. He glanced at the clock blearily - it was just past three o clock in the morning.

"Eh?"

_Bang bang!_

"John - " murmured Mary. "What's - ?"

"I," Watson said grimly, "Have no idea."

Groaning, he rolled out of bed, wrestled his nightgown on to the incessant melody of louder and louder knocks, then padded to the window and opened it, looking down to see who the intruder was.

It was Holmes. Of course it was Holmes, Watson thought ironically. He was bashing at the door as if it had insulted him, hair rumpled, wearing the barest minimum even though it was a cold winter's night, and looking as frenzied as he ever did.

"Holmes?" he said. Holmes glanced up and his face, which Watson hadn't noticed had been lined with worry until now, _instantly _broke into a broad smile that illuminated him from the inside out.

"What on earth are you _doing?_" Watson shouted.

"Watson! You're alive!" Holmes cheered, and did a little jump, with the sort of energy he usually only had when he had solved a case.

Watson rubbed his eyes - this was ridiculous.

"Well of _course _I'm - Holmes, you do realise it's the middle of night? And you're not even wearing a coat!"

Holmes glanced down at himself, as if he had only just realised this case.

"That's right!" he said brightly.

Watson put his head in his hands. It was far too late - or early - for this.

"Just - stay there," he mumbled, then closed the window and turned away. "Holmes," he said as way of an explanation to his wife, who groaned and buried her head in the pillow, murmuring very unladylike curses.

Watson stumbled downstairs, moaning, and ripped the door open brutally.

"Whatever it is, it had better be impor - " he started, and then stopped, because Holmes had flung his arms around him and was burying his head in his shoulder, as if he hadn't seen him in years.

"Er," Watson said. Holmes gripped him tighter, for all the world like a small boy who had just found his favourite possession.

Tentatively, Watson touched Holmes' bare shoulder. It was like touching ice, ice that was trembling.

"Holmes, you're _freezing._"

Silence. Holmes did not let go. Watson was starting to feel a little concerned. It was not like Holmes to be so quiet for this long. And he was showing no signs of releasing Watson, either.

"Holmes, old boy," he said, more gently. "Is everything all right?"

It was like he had pushed a lever. Holmes sprang back from him as if he had suddenly sprouted tusks.

"What? Fine!" he said cheerfully. "Absolutely fine, dear chap!" He was more wild-eyed than Watson had seen in some time. Watson frowned.

"Well then, would you _please _kindly explain why you decided to break down my door at three in the damn morning?!"

"Oh." Holmes blinked, as if he had forgotten, and for a moment his crazy liveliness faltered, and he simply looked haunted. Then he blinked again, and the joyousness had returned, and there was no trace of that moment. "Nothing. Nothing really. Sorry to disturb you, dear boy. Erm."

He scratched his head, momentarily somewhere else, then grinned lopsidedly at Watson again. "Well. I suppose I should be off."

Watson stared in confusion, but Holmes was already nodding at him and retreating as quickly as possible.

Watson watched as he trudged down the street, glared at the doorframe for a moment, then said, before Holmes was out of earshot, "Holmes."

Something in Holmes' shoulder blades twitched, but he turned back with a blank face. Watson sighed inwardly, wondering why he let himself constantly get caught up with this man's craziness, and then said, "Dinner tonight? The Royale."

Holmes hesitated. Watson added, diplomatically, "Mary will be out of town, visiting her brother. I thought maybe we could - catch up?"

Holmes' face twitched, like it did when he was trying to suppress a smile. "Wonderful. Eight thirty?"

"Eight thirty," affirmed Watson, then nodded and shut the door, leaving Holmes alone to carry on his rather brisker trot back to Baker Street and therefore missing his victorious grin completely.

**Read? Review! New chapter when I get a flash of insight…**


	2. Chapter 2

**NB: Next chapter, quite small but I hope you like it ****J. Holmes is a such a fun character to write!**

It was once more three o'clock in the morning - he could hear the chimes of the church bell nearby - and once more, Holmes found himself on the step of a certain house in Cavendish Place, with the door once more being flung violently open.

The furious, dishevelled, moustached form of Watson greeted him rudely.

"For Gods sake, Holmes!"

Holmes swayed, feeling sick. He couldn't remember why he was here now.

"Greetings, Watson," he said gravely. "Isn't it cold?"

Watson threw up his hands in disgust. "Holmes, this is getting - " And then he blinked, and focused suddenly on Holmes' left side. "You're bleeding," he said faintly.

Holmes glanced down at his arm. He was, indeed, bleeding. And quite a lot, he realised vaguely. Ah, he thought. _That_ must have been why he came here…

"Bit of an incident, old boy," he said, waving his arm around until it started hurting, and then stopping abruptly. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't _worry _- _Holmes_, you're spouting blood all over my front step and you tell me not to worry! I despair, I really do!" He grabbed Holmes by his good arm and yanked him into the hallway. "Come on, let's sort you out."

Holmes reeled. "Oh no…Don't want to be any trouble…"

"You've already been that, come on." He shoved Holmes gently through the hall and into his office, depositing his patient into a chair and lighting a lamp. The room filled with an amber glow, and Holmes, dripping merrily onto the carpet, relaxed into his chair and watched the ceiling spin.

Watson kneeled opposite him and took his arm, rolling up his sleeve with careful, cold, doctor's hands. "What happened?"

Holmes closed his eyes, relaxing into Watson's touch.

"A small incident with a cheating lover and a gun, and perhaps I discovered who the lover of a client's wife was, and perhaps the lover decided to shoot at me…"

"God," Watson muttered, inspecting the wound with gentle fingers. "Holmes, old boy, you shouldn't be mixing yourself up in trifles like that…"

"Well, I have no choice, do I? Must pay the rent…" He could feel the world pressing onto him, the voice telling him everything, a flood of information, again, as always and all of it…all of it…willing him to sleep…

"Stay awake, Holmes," Watson said. He prodded a bit more, and then said, "It looks like a deep graze. You got off lightly. How long did you run around like this before you came to me?"

Holmes flapped his good hand vaguely. "Two hours?"

"_Holmes_!"

"I didn't want to disturb you!"

"Honestly!"

Watson applied pressure on the wound in the form of a huge bandage with more force than was necessary, and yanked Holmes' arm up in the air, ignoring his pained yelp.

"_Next_ time," he said. "You come to me _immediately._"

Holmes' stubbornness reasserted himself, helped somewhat by his now throbbing arm.

"Why should I?" he sulked. "You have made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in what I do anymore by moving out…"

Watson glared at him through the lamplight. "I didn't mean - "

"_Forcing_ me, Watson, to take less exciting cases in order to pay the rent and getting myself very almost shot in the process because there was no one to help me!"

"Your little guilt trip won't work on me," Watson practically snarled. "If you don't like it, find someone else to take my rooms - "

"As if anyone could take your place, _mother hen_." The words were said bitterly, but there was an undertone beneath it that Watson was no fool to miss.

There was a small pause.

Watson shifted slightly, and inspected Holmes' wound. Holmes stared at the ceiling, already feeling better now that he wasn't running around bleeding everywhere.

"If," Watson finally said hesitantly. "You really needed help…I mean, with cases…"

"No," Holmes said.

"But…you did just say - "

"I was joking."

Watson's eyes met his, and now Holmes was the one who squirmed. "I mean…you have someone to care about you now, you can't go gallivanting off after me…"

Watson's expression turned into one resembling a thunderstorm.

"So have you," he snapped.

Another pause. Holmes sat back, suddenly feeling more relaxed than he had done in a long time, despite his pounding arm. Perhaps it was because this was how he liked it, just Watson and him, and a comfortable silence and a warm room that felt of Watson - his certificates on the wall, his smell, his presence in the air…

Watson gently shook his shoulder. "Don't go to sleep."

Holmes jerked awake. "Hmm? Mmm?"

"You've lost too much blood," Watson said worriedly. He made Holmes hold pressure onto his own arm, then stood up. "I'll make you some tea."

"Earl Grey?"

A fleeting smile, making his moustache twitch in the amber light. "Of course, Holmes."

Holmes relaxed back into his chair with a grin, completely content once more. Mad late night shootings and tea with Watson afterwards…yes, old boy, this was the life indeed…

The clock struck four o'clock, and all, Holmes decided muzzily, as he drowsed in the chair, was well.

**Please read and review! New chapter soon(ish)! A BIG THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS REVIEWED SO FAR!**


	3. Chapter 3

**NB: New chapter - poor Watson, he just can't seem to get one full night's sleep! None of the characters belong to me…Thank you so much for all the reviews, please keep them coming, I love every single one I get!**

Three o'clock in the morning. Cavendish Place was silent. There was silence in the house of the Watsons, and silence in their bedroom, and, most importantly of all, silence in Watson's head.

But of course - in a world in which Holmes existed - there would never be silence for long.

_Bang bang bang! _The door rattled with the force of his knocks, and, in his bed, Watson screamed soundlessly into his pillow.

Mary turned over, snarled something incomprehensible into Watson's ear that contained the words _idiot detectives _and _no sense of decorum_, and fell back asleep.

Back, legs and eyes protesting, Watson wrestled on his nightgown, and once more began the trudge downstairs, all ready to give Holmes a black eye.

Or two, he thought, and opened the door wearily.

He was ready for Holmes to be standing there aimlessly, or perhaps even collapsing through the door with some injury, or rushing through to escape some sort of nightmare in his head. What he wasn't ready for was for an unkempt, manic Holmes to barrel into him, knock him against the hallway wall and twist his arms painfully behind his back.

"Ouch! Holmes, what on _earth?_"

The menacing and overly familiar _click_ of handcuffs, and the sudden bite of metal into his wrists made him freeze, enough for Holmes to lean in and hiss deeply into Watson's ear.

"_Caught you_, you foul villain! Thought you could outsmart Holmes, eh? Well I'm onto you…"

"Holmes, have you finally lost your _mind?_"

"Silence, knave!"

"_Holmes!_"

Holmes grabbed his arms, spun him around and smacked him back into the wall again. Watson glared at Holmes, taking him in properly. He took in his tangled mess of hair, his odd mismatch of clothes (he was wearing a shoe on one foot, two socks on the other foot, and had a hat sticking out of his shirt), his drawn face with its waxy complexion, and most of all his pinpoint pupils in his wild-eyed gaze.

Watson sighed and would have crossed his arms, if they hadn't been clamped behind his back.

"Taking opium again Holmes? I've _told _you about the complications you could get, hmm, remember? Like _death_ - "

"Do not try to twist my mind, fiend, I know probably more than you ever will about the games your sort play!"

"Holmes, what are you _talking_ about?"

"_You_, sir, have committed a crime, and I have solved it, and have now come here to apprehend you in the doing!" His face lit up as he spoke, the expression of a small boy who had won a small victory over the world.

Watson groaned, trying not to be acutely aware of how close Holmes was to him, and how his face was only inches from Watson's own.

"Go back home, Holmes," he said wearily.

"Sorry, old boy," Holmes responded firmly, "But your time's up."

Watson realised Holmes was slurring. He wished he could check his pulse, but his own hands were cuffed behind him. Holmes must have overdosed again, and rather heavily to think that he, Watson, was some sort of criminal…

"Just what sort of crime do you think I've committed?" he asked, humouring Holmes so that he had time to think about what he could possibly do next.

Holmes put his hands behind his back and looked at Watson with his head cocked.

"Impersonation," he said finally.

"Well, then, who do you think I'm impersonating?"

"Dr John Watson."

"_Wha_ - Holmes, I _am_ Watson!"

"Ah _ha!_" Holmes jabbed a finger at him triumphantly. "I _knew _you'd say that!"

Watson rolled his eyes.

"You can't be Watson," continued Holmes victoriously, unsteadily, "Because Watson would never leave me."

Watson froze.

And then a wave of guilt washed freshly over him, too sudden to be quashed by either his common sense or his sense of propriety, and he momentarily slumped.

"Holmes," he whispered, but Holmes carried on, too out of his mind to notice Watson's sudden deflating, or his murmured word.

"You must have captured Watson and disguised yourself as him - haha, a clever ploy that indeed took me in, until now! You must have impersonated him to get closer to me, the great, wonderful, brilliantly minded…Sherlock Holmes…" he swayed dangerously, and Watson leaned forward quickly, not sure just how much help he would be to Holmes if he collapsed since he was handcuffed…maybe he should call for Mary…

"Anyway," Holmes was mumbling. "Any…way…" His legs sagged. Watson tried to nudge him upright with his shoulder, but just as he shuffled forward, Holmes sprang back to life again, like a clockwork soldier who had just been wound back up. "Anyway!" he shouted suddenly, "You couldn't fool me! Trying to go and get 'married' in order for me not to suspect you were getting too close - but that just made me more suspicious, didn't it, dear boy! Because Watson…would never…"

He drooped again, leaning his forehead against Watson's shoulder and allowing himself to slump on top of him. Watson squirmed, but his wrists were locked tightly behind him, and Holmes was too heavy for him to move out of the way.

"Holmes…" he complained.

"Would never…leave…me…" Holmes sighed into Watson's shirt. Watson's stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he wished his hands were free so that he could touch Holmes on the shoulder.

Holmes snuffled into Watson. He tutted gently to himself.

"Holmes…I'm." He paused, then ploughed recklessly on. "I'm sorry…"

His confession was responded to by a loud snore. Watson twisted his head painfully to look at the suddenly sleeping Holmes, and in doing so, managed to dislodge him from his shoulder. Holmes' slipped from Watson into the wall, face first, then slid slowly and droolingly down to the floor, where he lay in a crumpled, snoring heap.

Watson sighed and stood quietly for a moment, staring at the opposite wall.

The clock struck half past three.

Slowly, and with some effort, Watson sank to his knees, shuffled over to Holmes and perused his pockets as best he could do with his hands trapped behind his back (which meant he had to face the other way whilst he was feeling his way around various, strange, sometimes slimy, things in the pockets, and cursing silently all the while) until he found the key.

It took him a further fifteen minutes for him to unlock the handcuffs, and by the time he had released himself, he was no longer in the mood to do anything but fling the handcuffs on the floor next to the incumbent Holmes and storm upstairs with every intention of going back to sleep.

And then he did what he always did, he stopped and had a violent wrestle with his conscience.

He glanced over his shoulder. Holmes was still tucked against the wall, still deeply asleep, now drooling merrily onto his front.

He couldn't really leave him like that. In good conscience he couldn't, even though, he thought sulkily, his wrists still hurt.

Watson sighed again, and permitted himself a grim smile. How did Holmes _still_ manage to have a hold over him, even when he was in a drug-induced stupor on his floor?

"Damn you, man," he said quietly, then clunked back down the stairs and got back on his knees, shaking Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes moaned into his saliva-covered shoulder. Watson narrowed his eyes.

"Get up Holmes, or I swear I will make you sleep on the doorstep. Which is still covered in your blood," he added as an afterthought.

Holmes eyes flickered open, took Watson in, closed again. He smiled a little crookedly.

"'Lo, Wats…"

Watson shook his head with another resigned sigh, and wrestled at Holmes painfully up until he was at least standing up, even if it took all Watson's strength to make him do so.

"Holmes, you actually need to do some of the walking _yourself_," he snapped, already regretting being nice in the first place. Sluggishly, Holmes stumbled forward, and Watson guided him silently into the living room and onto the sofa. Holmes was already falling back asleep by the time Watson had managed to get him lying down properly, and made no sound when Watson slipped his one shoe off.

Watson stepped back and surveyed the sleeping Holmes with a doctor's eye. His head was elevated, so that was all right…and he seemed to be sleeping more peacefully now. Hopefully the opium wouldn't damage his brain cells _too_ much, he thought ironically, and his moustache twitched in black amusement as his mind added disloyally, _it would serve him right if it did!_

"Sleep well, Holmes," he said softly, and left, to get some well-deserved rest.

The clock struck four. Neither men were awake to hear it.

**I can has review? Tell me the good/bad!**


	4. Chapter 4

**NB: New chapter. I don't own 'em. Please please please review!!!!!**

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Three o'clock in the morning, and Watson was asleep in the restless manner of one who was unconsciously waiting for a knock on his door at any moment.

Quarter past three chimed. There was silence.

Half past. Mary murmured in her sleep. The silence went on.

Quarter to. Watson shifted restively. The doorstep remained empty.

However, the window-box did not.

_CRASH._

Watson sat bolt upright. Mary shrieked and almost fell out of the bed.

"What was that?" she gasped, hanging onto the side table to prevent herself from actually falling to the floor, her hair tumbling into her eyes.

Watson levered himself out of the bed, groping for his sword-cane in the dark.

"Surely he wouldn't…" he murmured.

"Holmes?" Mary curled back up onto the bed. "Or someone else?" She was about to say _someone worse_ but frankly, she thought that at least burglars would be a refreshing change.

"I will soon see," Watson answered grimly, motioned for her to stay there, and left as silently as possible.

The hallway was, for once, empty, the door resolutely closed and locked, but Watson was only halfway down the stairs when he heard noises in the front room. He tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear to it; there were no voices, but he could hear someone shuffling around inside. He was about to barge in, sword drawn, and then he heard a voice mutter a curse as the person who owned it banged into what sounded like the sofa…and he realised he knew that voice.

"Wonderful," he said aloud, straightened up and pushed the door wearily open.

The sight of Holmes, struggling up amongst the broken glass of the front window, which now had a Holmes-sized hole in it, greeted Watson.

He folded his arms, leant against the doorframe and quirked an eyebrow.

Holmes smiled sheepishly. "Good evening old boy."

Watson glared but no longer had the energy to start shouting and screaming, and merely sighed.

"Holmes…"

Holmes pointed an accusing finger at him through the gloom. "Ah now, Watson, before you protest, I didn't technically knock on your door, did I?"

"_No_, Holmes, you just smashed straight through my front window!"

"Ah." Holmes gave the window a doubtful look. "But…still not the door."

Watson resisted the urge to throw something heavy at Holmes, strong though the urge was becoming with every moment spent with him, and stepped into the room.

"Holmes, would you _kindly_ tell me why you - "

Something about the size and shape of a cricket ball was flung through the Holmes hole and landed at Watson's feet, cutting off his complaint before it started getting overwrought, and, on the sight of it, Holmes let out a sharp yelp and threw himself at Watson, effectively tackling him into the hallway.

They landed in a tangle of limbs and curses (on Watson's part anyway) on the dusty hall floor, but Holmes was already disentangling himself immediately, and half fell, half stumbled towards the living room door, slamming it shut.

Watson sat up. Holmes was struggling out of his waistcoat and stuffing it in the gap under the door.

"_Holmes_," he said, and this time he was not so calm.

"Please, Watson, not now," Holmes interrupted brusquely. "I am - "

"HOLMES!" Watson barked. Holmes jumped. Watson crawled forward threateningly, his leg throbbing. "You have just smashed through my window. And now I am covered in dust having just been rugby tackled into my hall. I would like to know what. Is. Going. On."

"Ah." Holmes shifted away slightly from the fiery-eyed Watson. "Well, thing is, dear boy, I was being followed by a gang of rather disreputable chemists come criminals, who have succeeded in making a set of admittedly fascinating chemical bombs as you have just witnessed in the living room…simply wonderful, Watson, on impact they actually _release _a kind of gas that inhibits ones nerves - quite intriguing and, of course, quite dangerous…"

"Holmes. This does not explain why you smashed through my window…"

"Yes. Well. They were chasing me…and I was in the neighbourhood…"

"So you decided to just _drop in?_"

Holmes cringed and shrugged vaguely. "Um…well…"

"Simultaneously breaking my window and making my living room effectively _uninhabitable_…"

"Ah yes, but I didn't mean - "

"And now I suppose these criminals with their dangerous weapons are surrounding my house."

Holmes slumped. "You could say that," he muttered.

Watson levered himself to his feet with help from his retrieved cane, which had luckily rolled into the hallway, and glared down at the despondent Holmes from his elevated position.

"I," he said, "Am going to check that Mary is safe. You will stay here."

He had not gone two steps up the staircase before Holmes had sprung to his feet and was dashing down the hallway in the opposite direction to the front door and straight towards another window.

"_Holmes don't you dare -_ " Watson started, but he had barely got the words out before Holmes had barrelled straight through the glass and out into the street outside with an audible crunch. Watson scrambled back down the stairs and towards the second broken window, but was only in time to see Holmes dashing as fast as he possibly could away from the house, a group of relatively nefarious criminals in hot pursuit.

Watson sighed. The clock struck the hour, and he glanced at it with a faint smile. It was four o'clock. Holmes had managed to effectively smash two windows, get Watson's living room gassed, easily put the whole house in danger and just as effortlessly brought it out of danger again…all in fifteen minutes.

That, Watson decided, was a new record.

He went back to bed.

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**Review and you get an inflatable Watson/Holmes/WatsonHolmes!**


	5. Chapter 5

**NB: Another chapter! This one is very short, but I will make up for it by making the final chapter extra long! I don't own these characters!**

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"Watson!"

Silence.

"_Watson!_"

More silence.

"Watsooooooooooooon…"

Watson opened his eyes. The clock struck three, making him groan, and was immediately followed by three heavy raps on the door and his name being called by the most irritating man alive.

"Watson, old boy, open up or I shall be forced to break your window again!"

Watson flung himself out of bed, dislodging Mary, and ripped open the bedroom window, glaring at the dishevelled form of Holmes hovering outside his door.

"Don't you dare," he snarled.

Holmes beamed; he had what he wanted.

"Watson! I have discovered the most wonderful invention!"

"Holmes…need I remind you what time it is…"

Holmes looked so genuinely baffled by this comment that it was all Watson could do to keep a straight face and continue looking angry - that was the most irritating and endearing thing about Holmes, he was as loveable as he was a nuisance.

"Go away, Holmes," he said, not ungently.

"But I've discovered something marvellous!" Holmes protested, and then launched into his usual tirade, gesticulating wildly and stamping about on Watson's (now clean) doorstep. "While I was researching for an antidote to the venom of the Indian swamp adder - you remember that case, don't you, the one with of the speckled band? - well anyway, while I was researching for that - did I mention I am almost there, I think a rare Indian herb may be the answer to it - anyway, as I was researching this - and don't, whatever you do, listen to whatever Mrs Hudson may say about the singe-marks on the wall, the woman loves to exaggerate - anyway…"

But by this time Watson had zoned out and was contemplating his hasty exit from his warm bed with regret.

"This is all very interesting, Holmes," he said, sounding as enthralled as he could, cutting through the man's blathering, "But how about I come downstairs and we talk about this inside?"

Holmes flailed, annoyed at being denied the opportunity to show off for a few minutes because of human decency but pleased that Watson was going to listen, and eventually nodded.

Watson withdrew from the window.

Silence reigned in Cavendish Place. Holmes withdrew his pipe from his pocket, lit it, and glanced up at the window, wondering if he should start shouting for Watson again, but just as he did, the man himself appeared at the window.

"Holmes," he said.

Holmes raised a finger and opened his mouth to continue his ramblings, just as Watson lifted a huge pail of water out of the window and emptied its contents over Holmes's head with a loud vengeful splash.

Holmes paused, dripping wet, his finger still raised, his pipe knocked slightly askew by the onslaught of the water.

Watson smiled brightly down at him.

"Good_night_, Holmes," he said cheerfully and slammed shut the window.

Down in the street, Holmes stood silently, dripping for a moment, then grinned to himself, withdrew his pipe from his pocket and trotted down the front steps, on the hunt for excitement and danger.

Upstairs in the room, Watson climbed back into his bed and closed his eyes, his moustache twitching in amusement as he replayed his vengeance in his head.

He could not get to sleep until the clock struck four.

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**Please R and R! The NEXT CHAPTER is the FINAL PART!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hi everyone! THANK YOU for waiting for patiently for this last chapter to arrive - I have struggled with this chapter like I would an **_**over-amorous octopus**_**, so forgive me if its not up to the usual standard (er, if I have one that is :p). I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING SO FAR. I LOVE YOU ALL AND WANT YOUR BABIES.**

**And so, without further ado…**

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And One Time Watson Visited Holmes…

_Bang bang bang._

Noise. There was noise.

_Bang bang bang._

Noise close to him.

_Bang bang bang._

Holmes opened his eyes.

His cheek was pressed stickily to the cluttered, wooden floor of Baker Street, plastered to the spot where he had finally collapsed after four days without sleep. The faint scents of his room - chemicals, rotting debris - filled his nose, awakened the rest of his senses. It was dark, so that meant it was still night time - the fire was out, so perhaps early morning instead - and there…there was something was thumping very close to his ear…

_Bang._

With some difficulty, he twisted and rolled his head around on the floor to the source of the noise. The jerking movement of Watson's cane tapping hard on the floor just by his ear met his rather bleary sight. He followed this convenient line of sight up to Watson's face, which was peering at him over the top of the cane. Behind him the clock struck a cheery three o'clock in the morning.

"Hello Holmes," he said, and smirked.

Holmes opened his mouth, but it was as dry and arid as sandpaper (and tasted disgusting - what _had_ he been drinking?) and he had to swallow hard several times before he could muster words onto his tongue.

"Wa'son? What're you doing here?"

"Getting revenge on you," answered Watson, and stretched a hand down for Holmes to take. Holmes did so, struggling to his feet with some awkwardness, his legs feeling numb and alien, pricking him all over with pins and needles. He tried to beat some feeling in them, while Watson moved over to the hat stand and removed his coat, as casually as if he had never left.

"Imagine my surprise," he said conversationally, "When I woke up _suddenly _in the middle of the night, _quite _unable to understand why." He glanced back sardonically at Holmes. "What do you think caused that, now?"

Holmes was suddenly very involved in waking his legs up, and avoided Watson's gaze.

"I did mean to stay away tonight…" he protested eventually.

"Mmmhmm. Unfortunately, your previous visitations have successfully managed to disturb my sleep pattern to such an extent that I knew I wouldn't be able to rest until - "

Watson cut himself off quickly, and busied himself with putting his coat and hat on the rack. Holmes hesitated, thinking about saying something, then decided against it and instead collapsed with his usual natural grace onto the sofa, still rubbing his slowly awakening legs.

A not-quite companionable silence fell between the two men, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Holmes yawned and stretched himself out on the sofa, drowsy but determined not to sleep now that Watson was finally here to entertain him. He wriggled into the sofa, to give Watson a space to sit down, but Watson seemed unable to take the hint; he was wandering around the room, inspecting random objects he must have seen thousands of times before with a sudden devote dedication.

Strange, Holmes thought, observing Watson's actions under his hair. He was touching each item as if it were a long lost friend whom he had not seen for many years, not the few months that it had, in actuality, been. His fingers touched on foreign objects, boxes, pens, brushed along the spines of well worn books, caressed papers and files. He spent a long time inspecting Holmes's Persian slipper full of tobacco. He spent longer on Holmes's violin, running his fingers up and down the strings and the wood, plucking and stroking each note carefully, his face in a sad twist of a smile.

And then quite suddenly he stopped, and turned on his heel, and sat heavily down beside Holmes on the sofa, with none of Holmes's grace. After another moment, he flopped himself down properly, and they both stared up at the high (and rather unnervingly stained) ceiling, both for once quite lost for words, beyond even the usual bickering.

And then Watson spoke, in a careless, offhand and ultimately tragic way.

"What have you done to me, Holmes?"

Holmes frowned at the ceiling.

"_Me?_ All I did was visit you once or twice - "

" - or five times - "

"Or - well, yes, all right, but - "

"You have driven me quite insane."

"It was only an hour each time!"

"Not the visits." Watson turned his head to look at Holmes, who returned his gaze blankly.

"I - I'm not - "

"Holmes. You have driven me insane. Even without your little night time visits. It seems I…it seems that you…" Watson coughed and looked away, suddenly inspecting his hands with intense curiosity. Holmes waited, content with watching Watson's hands, careful and steady, as every doctor's should be, turn and twist in the dark amber light of the room.

"It seems that I am no longer able to live a normal life," Watson said finally, gruffly. "I find myself perusing the newspaper every morning for crimes. I spend my days in my practice with one ear open, listening for explosions or shouts and yells to come from next door. When I _do_ have the night to myself, I find myself waking up, straining my ears for the sound of your _damned_ violin. I examine all the neighbours when they come round, trying to deduce what they have been doing, and not listening to a word they say. I have _dreams_, Holmes, _dreams_ of apprehending criminals. I have been driven insane. And it is all your fault."

Holmes paused, staring at Watson's hands and at the ceiling beyond, half of his mind counting each stain and trying to remember exactly just how each had occurred. He was not a man who apologised. For anything. Ever. And saying 'I told you so' would be…ungentlemanly.

After a long enough hesitation, Watson dropped his hands onto his chest and let out a deep sigh.

"I should go home."

He was off the sofa and picking his hat off the stand when Holmes heard himself say, "Wait."

Watson paused, then hated himself for doing so. He turned on his heel, to where Holmes was now half sitting, propped up on his elbows, his eyes fixed on Watson.

"I shouldn't have done it," Watson said.

Holmes frowned, a dark crease between his eyebrows.

"Married - ?"

"No, no, I mean…I mean married is fine. Great," Watson said quickly. "Perfect. I mean - I just meant - perhaps I didn't need to stop helping you on cases as well."

He looked quickly down at his cane, clearing his throat. Holmes stared at him.

"Are you saying - ?"

"Would you consider - ?"

"You would really - ?"

"Yes…if you wanted me to." Watson stared up nervously at Holmes, who was still looking at him as if he had just dropped through the roof. "W - _would _you want me to?"

Holmes's mouth twitched into a small, smug smile, and his eyes suddenly took on a mischievous nature.

"Weeell…"

Watson pointed his cane at him, suddenly furious.

"_Don't_," he said. "I won't beg and I won't ask again. I won't." The dark glare in his eyes told Holmes he was deadly serious, and Holmes dropped it.

"It hasn't been quite the same without you, dear boy," he said quietly instead.

Watson thought about the night time visits, and about the drugged Holmes protesting that Watson would never leave him. He was half convinced that Holmes had done it all to drive him just as insane as he had become. Perhaps it had been Holmes's rather unsubtle way of reminding him what he was missing. Or perhaps it had merely been Holmes missing him.

He glanced over to where Holmes was now back to lying on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. And then looked back down at his hat and sighed.

Holmes had his eyes closed when he felt Watson settle back down beside him on the sofa, but opened them immediately and flashed him a triumphant grin.

"I thought you were going home."

Watson closed his eyes, rolled onto his side and squirmed closer to Holmes, resting his forehead very lightly against Holmes's shoulder.

"I am home," he whispered.

After a moment, he opened his eyes again and snapped,

"Holmes. Stop smiling."

"Sorry," Holmes replied instantly, sounding a little muffled, but when Watson raised his head a little to look at him, he was met with only an impassive expression.

He lowered his head back onto Holmes's ridiculously comfortable shoulder, safe in the knowledge that Holmes had probably started grinning again when he did so.

Four o'clock chimed. Neither men cared. Time didn't matter anymore.

The End

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter and this fic overall, if you did enjoy it, don't hesitate to read some of my other stuff (shameless plug, I know :p). Thank you for reading! :)**


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